


Pumpkin Spice Latte Season

by earlgreytea68



Series: PSL [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that time of year again!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pumpkin Spice Latte Season

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to booskerdu on Twitter and Dunkin' Donuts for reminding me that it's pumpkin spice latte season again!
> 
> And thank you to corinnetags, amysnotdeadyet, and involuntaryorange for sprinting with me so I could get this finished!

Arthur was standing in a coffee shop making a pumpkin spice latte. 

This was a thing that he’d done a million times before, at least, and he was fucking sick to death of pumpkin spice lattes, he really was, but still, he made this one and he smiled at it. 

“Taking that one to go?” Maddie asked behind him. 

Arthur settled the lid over the cup and knew he was smiling like an idiot but couldn’t help it. “Yup.” 

“You’ve got tomorrow off, right?” 

“Yeah.” Arthur slung his backpack over his shoulder. 

“So much free time.” Maddie sighed enviously. “What will you do with it?” 

“Homework,” Arthur said, indicating his backpack. 

“Liar, you’re going to go make out with your boyfriend,” said Maddie, and stuck her tongue out at him. 

Arthur rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked out to where his bike was parked, pulled the thermos out of its holder, and carefully poured the pumpkin spice latte into it. Then he threw out the cup, unlocked the bike, settled himself onto it, and threaded his way into the traffic. It was funny, Arthur thought, how second-nature this was becoming, the daily round of pinball that was navigating these busy streets. It was funny, Arthur thought, how everything about this life seemed like it had always been his life. 

Arthur re-parked and re-locked his bike at his destination, grabbed the thermos, and headed into the building. 

“Hi, Arthur,” said Lindsey from the front desk. 

“Hi, Lindsey,” Arthur said, smiling. “Can you sign me in?” 

“I can sign your lazy ass in. _As always_ ,” said Lindsey, grinning back. 

“You’re the best,” said Arthur, and jogged up the three steps in the lobby to hit the button for the elevator. 

Which, when it dinged open, revealed a couple making out in the corner. Just another Friday night. 

He stepped onto the elevator and the couple didn’t even notice. When he got to his floor, he said to them, “Have a good night,” because he was in that kind of cheerful mood. 

Eames’s door was wide open, largely because there was a papier-mache roller coaster spilling out of it and blocking the door from closing. Also, blasting out of the room was some incomprehensible scratchy bluegrass-sounding music. 

“What the fuck is this music?” Arthur asked, stepping carefully over the roller coaster. 

“Darling!” exclaimed Eames, as if Arthur was totally unexpected, as if Arthur wasn’t here basically _every night_.

“This is _blues history_ ,” Eames’s roommate Waldo told Arthur. 

“Oh, is it?” said Arthur politely. “Sorry.” 

“You have to excuse Arthur. His taste in music is coffee shop chic.” 

“Shut up,” said Arthur, knowing the tips of his ears were turning pink because, well, it was _true_.

Eames shut up by slinging an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulling him in for a smacking kiss. “How are you?” he asked, beaming at Arthur. 

“I’m good,” Arthur said, thrown only slightly off-kilter by Eames’s effusive greeting. He thought maybe, finally, he was getting used to being greeted like a conquering hero all the time. 

The music, blessedly, went off. 

“So,” announced Waldo, “you kids have a good time tonight. I am off to help sketch a labyrinth on the quad.” 

“You’re off to what?” said Arthur. 

Waldo shrugged. “What else do art students do on a Friday night?” He stepped over the roller coaster and disappeared out into the hall. 

Arthur looked at Eames. “I didn’t chase him out, did I? I always worry that I’m chasing him out. We should spend more time in my dorm.” 

“He’s shagging some girl who lives in Smith and thinks I don’t know,” said Eames. “Now. You’re looking pleased with yourself. Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?” 

Arthur, grin irrepressible, handed Eames the thermos. 

“What’s this?” asked Eames, unscrewing the top and sniffing. 

“Pumpkin spice latte,” Arthur told him. 

“I thought you hated pumpkin spice lattes.” 

“I do.” 

“You look very happy to have a pumpkin spice latte, for someone who hates pumpkin spice lattes.” 

“The pumpkin spice latte is for you. Because it’s pumpkin spice latte season again.” 

Eames brightened. “Ah, darling, thank you.” He leaned over and kissed Arthur’s cheek. “How lovely of you. I shall cherish this pumpkin spice latte and savor this, my very favorite season.” Eames put the thermos down on his desk and said, “What do you think of the roller coaster?” 

Arthur frowned for a second, thrown, and then turned to look at the roller coaster. “It’s, uh…” He shook himself mentally, thinking it wasn’t fair to feel hurt that Eames hadn’t… He took a deep breath and forced himself to act normal. “It’s good. What’s it supposed to be?” 

“A roller coaster.” 

“No deep artistic metaphor?” 

“Sometimes a roller coaster is just a roller coaster. Would you mind grabbing some of that Jell-O out of the fridge for me, love?” 

Arthur sighed, reaching for the fridge, because, really, Eames’s taste in snacks was—

Arthur stopped, the fridge door open, staring at the two eggs sitting on the top shelf, faces drawn on them, one with curly yellow hair. 

He stared silently for a long moment, and then he turned to Eames. “ _Eames_ ,” he said accusingly. 

Eames looked delighted. “Did you think I’d forgot?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Arthur, swinging the fridge door closed and going over to give Eames a shove. “Asshole.” 

“But, petal,” protested Eames, grinning unabashedly as he caught Arthur into his arms, “how could I ever forget the most important day of my life? Becoming an egg parent with you?” 

“We were terrible egg parents,” Arthur said. 

“We were excellent egg parents. We will keep this version of Chauncey and Petunia alive forever.” 

“They’d start to smell.”

Eames smirked. “Not those eggs.” 

Realization dawned on Arthur. “Oh, my God, are they some kind of art project?” 

“‘Some kind of art project!’” Eames scoffed. “They are beautiful, delicate, one-of-a-kind pieces of art. And I blew the egg out of them, it was no big deal. Easy trick, really, we should tell all the poor kids behind us having to do that project.” 

Arthur suddenly hugged Eames, pressing his face into Eames’s neck, because he worried he was being too stupidly, ridiculously emotional, but he felt like crying. They were here-- _here_ \--and _happy_ , and they had _done_ it. They’d gotten out, and they’d ended up here, with Eames in art school, and Arthur only on the other side of town, with his own precious scholarship tucked in his back pocket, and sometimes, like now, Arthur couldn’t believe it wasn’t all a dream he was going to wake up from. 

Eames hugged him back, tight and solid, the way Eames always did when Arthur felt like he needed a hug, reminding him he was _there_. He kissed the side of Arthur’s head and said, “Happy anniversary, love.” 

“Happy pumpkin spice latte season,” said Arthur.


End file.
